


Murder Most Magical

by AriWrote, penandpidgeon



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Dragon Keith, Dryad Pidge, Elven Knight Allura, Elven Knight Mentor Coran, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Hunk (Voltron), He's also the child of an undine, Hunk the Minor God of Baking, Keith’s hoard is made up of conspiracy theories, Lance uses his magic for painting, M/M, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Season Two Spoilers via Allusions, Slow Build, The only people who don't realize Hunk is a god are Keith and Lance, Vampire Shiro, Water Witch Lance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-09-19 21:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9461825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AriWrote/pseuds/AriWrote, https://archiveofourown.org/users/penandpidgeon/pseuds/penandpidgeon
Summary: A string of murders, the most recent victim a dragon shifter, has caught the attention of Keith Kogane. The police are unwilling to take these increasingly frequent cases seriously, claiming that the victims all fall into the category of 'non-human'. When a new target turns the police's eyes towards none other than his brother, Shiro, Keith is forced to do their job for them, with the help of none other than the pretty water witch whose studio he'd burned down mere hours before.-Lance's entire livelihood had gone up in flames all because of one damn dragon. So what if he's cute and trying to make amends? As Lance tries to pull the scraps of his life together, he keeps finding himself being dragged back into the narrative, and often into the company of an angry dragon. You'd think after hitting rock bottom he would give up, but not Lance. No, Lance brought a shovel.





	1. Starving Artists and Flaming Homosexuals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ari: Thank Elliot for that chapter title. I died of giggles because of it. Anyway, this is my first attempt at writing a fanfic with another person and my second attempt at writing a story with Elliot (but we don't talk about the first one). Hopefully we can update regularly, but given our proclivities towards procrastination, who knows if that'll be true.
> 
> Elliot: Yo yo yo, it's Elliot, your favorite obscure author, coming at you from a dead fandom with some kick-ass dragon puns and a total disregard for proper sentence structure. I would link my Tumblr but you don't wanna see it, I promise.

Lance smells smoke. It’s the tell-tale smell of late nights where his sleep-addled brain had dreamt him into a master chef, and had taken it upon itself to satisfy his midnight cravings without Hunk’s assistance. For a moment, he even thinks that’s what’s happening. It takes him several minutes to realize the impossibility of that.

He’s in his studio. He’s been there for nearly 24 hours, a deadline and the promise of his artwork hanging in a gallery the only thing keeping him awake. As far as he knew, there was no stove to catch fire or anything that he could use to accidently start one. Meanwhile, the smell had only grown stronger.

He rubs at his eyes with the one clean part of his hand, and studies the studio. Did it look smokier? He hears frantic knocking and a desperate call of, “Is anybody in there?”

He bolts for the door. As he opens it, he only barely manages a “What’s wrong?” before he is being pulled through the door by a clawed hand.

His first impression of the boy on the end of that hand is that his hair is horrendous. A mullet? In this day and age? His second impression is that he was very, very red. Dark scales run up the length of his forearm, tapering off near his elbow. A smudge of blue paint had rubbed off of Lance onto the fingerless gloves (what the hell was this guy’s style?) covering the scales on his hands.The boy’s cheeks were covered in the same scales, though they weren’t as heavy as the ones on his arms. Lance’s eyes trailed to where they disappeared beneath his collar before glancing back up at the boy’s face. His eyes (purple, Lance noted, the kind of shade he’d love to work with) were slitted like those of a snake.

Lance hadn’t known a dragonshifter lived in this building.

“There’s a fire,” the dragonboy says, eyes flickering back towards Lance as if to check that he’s still there, “We need to get out.”

“A what?” Lance asks, glancing around at the building as if maybe he could find it, but all he can see was smoke.

“Are you an idiot? A fire. You know, the burning kind.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Lance says, fighting the urge to rip his hand from the dragonboy’s grip. The claws would surely do damage, and he doubted that he could find the exit alone.

“Could have fooled me,” he replies. The dragonboy lifts the collar of his shirt over his nose and motions for Lance to do the same. “It’s getting thicker. Cover your mouth.”

Lance does so and his voice comes out muffled as he asks, “How’d it’d even start? Aren’t there supposed to be smoke alarms in this building? What about the sprinklers?”

“Shut up,” is the dragonboy’s only reply. “Ask questions later.”

“Me talking isn’t slowing us down,” Lance grumbles, but remains quiet for the rest of the way. He can feel the heat of the fire against his back now, and the smoke is making it harder to see and talk. They’re on the second floor, and Lance can’t help a rush of relief when he realizes that the fire hasn’t touch the stairwell. It’s near impossible to see, but they manage to make it to the exit.

As they stumble out onto the street, Lance lets out a ragged cough and blinks up at the sunlight. He can hear the sirens of fire trucks in the distance, but he doubts they’ll be any use at this point. The building behind them is ablaze and, Lance realizes with a sense of dread, so are his paintings.

“Shit,” he swears under his breath. He’s shaky on his legs and he’s gulping down air in a desperate attempt to ease the burning in his lungs. “Shit,” he repeats.

He doesn’t want to deal with this right now. His supplies, his paintings, everything is burned to ash. He’d never manage to replace it all before the exhibit. Hell, he’d been banking on the check from the exhibit to replace his already dwindling supplies. He turns towards the dragonboy, who’s taken to staring off into the distance with a predictably angsty look on his face. He could deal with anger. It was a hell of a lot easier than that other shit.

“What the hell, man? Why’d you drag me out of there?”

“What the-” sputters the dragonboy, “I saved your life! If it wasn’t for me, you’d be dead!”

“If it wasn’t for you,” Lance hisses, his hands curled into fists at his sides,  “I could’ve saved all my paintings! All my supplies, all my work!” He shoulders slump. “Oh god, all my work…”

The dragonboy is almost apologetic, his eyes (still that same beautiful color) looking more and more human. But then the pupils contract as his mouth hardens and he turns away, crossing his scaled arms over his chest.

“I still saved your life,” he growls.

“I could have handled it,” Lance replies, though the bite from before is gone.

“You,” he says, pointed and incredulous, “could have handled a raging fire? You don’t even look like you could handle a… a…” He stutters, then glares. “Something really easy to handle!”

“I have water magic, you idiot.”

“Oh.” The glare leaves the dragonboy’s face, replaced by a dumbfounded look. He blinks, trying to regain the aggravation from before. He can only manage a weak, “Well, you weren’t using it.”

“You try using magic when you’re sleep-deprived and being dragged around by a stranger,” Lance says. “Not that easy.” He sighs and rubs at his face, ignoring the paint that surely must be all over it now, “Listen, Dragonboy-”

“It’s Keith, actually,” the dragonboy -Keith, actually- says.

“Lance,” he offers in return. He wants to continue on with what he’d intended to say -how they’d started off on the wrong foot, but he’d be willing to put aside the art burning for the sake of civility and maybe a refund- when the fire trucks arrive. He turns towards the blaring sirens. He gives a tired smile and a jaunty wave. “And here comes the cavalry.”

* * *

Keith never really means to catch things on fire; it just sort of happens. He’s already been kicked out of two apartments before this one, and he doesn’t know if he can afford to pay for this many damages. Landlords, as it turns out, don’t really like it when you burn things down. 

As the fire-fighters rush past him, shouting and dragging hoses, he watches the blazing building. It was decrepit to begin with, and the flames are having a field day as they rip through the cheap frame. He hears a groan, then a crack, and then more shouting as the fire-fighters retreat and the whole right side of the buildings collapses in on itself. He’s startled by a small gasp, and he turns to the wide eyes of the not-quite-a-stranger-anymore standing behind him.

“Shit,” Lance whispers. The shock of adrenaline has worn off, and he’s staring at the not-quite-a-building-anymore with a look of stunned horror. Keith feels a sharp stab of guilt. 

He steps closer, and almost reaches out a hand before he realizes that claws aren’t really comforting. He focuses for a moment, ignoring the itch of the dark red scales as they retreat along his arms. His vision isn’t as sharp anymore and his hands are hands again, but he still doesn’t reach out. Lance’s eyes are unfocused, his cheeks smudged with paint and ash. All of him is covered in flecks of blue and grey, and Keith tries not to notice the dampness around his eyes or the weight that now hangs in his shoulders. Keith is a sudden witness to this stranger’s vulnerability, and another pang of guilt swells inside his chest. Damn water witch. Why did he have to be so pretty?

Keith opens his mouth, not quite sure what he’s going to say but feeling like he has to say something. How do you apologize for burning down someone’s livelihood and then yelling at them? He’s still standing there, mouth open, eyebrows furrowed, when the first police officer arrives on the scene.

The car pulls up to the curb, avoiding the red trucks and the spray of water that’s really just for show at this point. The officer steps out, makes a quick survey of her surroundings (the building, the fire, the guilty dragon in the parking lot), and heads straight for Keith. Her partner sticks his head out of the car and then gets back inside, a little paler than before.

She rolls her eyes in his direction before dragging out a clipboard and offering Keith a tired smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Kogane.”

“Hey there, Officer,” he says. “Nice to see you again.”

“I wish I could say the same.” 

Lance shoots them both a suspicious look. “You two know each other?”

“Mr. Kogane is a repeat offender, unfortunately,” the officer says. Keith feels the scales on his cheeks turn a brighter shade of red. “What is this? The fourth?”

“Third,” he corrects. “Accidents, all of them.” He doesn’t know who he’s saying it to.

Lance’s eyes get bigger, and he stares at Keith as the gears begin to turn in his sleep-deprived brain. “You… you?” He sputters. He jerks his head back and forth, looking at Keith, then the flames, and then back at Keith. “You! You caught the building on fire!” He gasps. “You caught my  _ paintings _ on fire!” He isn’t unsteady anymore. His voice is rising, and he stabs his finger into Keith’s chest. His eyes are fierce, the gentle pain of loss clouded over by fury. His anger would have been impressive if it wasn’t for the undercurrent of disbelief that it had taken Lance so long to realize that dragon equals fire.

The officer steps between them, using her clipboard as a rudimentary shield. She gently removes Lance’s hand from Keith’s chest, but he continues to glare at Keith over her shoulder. Keith struggles between annoyance and guilt.

“Gentlemen, if you’ll stop  _ bickering _ for a moment,” says the officer, disapproval coloring her tone, “I need to get statements from both of you.” Keith blushes again, and Lance turns his glare to the ground, both of them properly scolded. The officer faces Lance.

“Name, please?”

“Lance Sanchez.”

“Do you live in the building?”

“No ma’am, I live across town.” He gives her the address, and she scribbles it on one of the forms. “I rent a room on the second floor that I use as my painting studio.”

“And where were you when you became aware of the fire?”

“I was painting.” Keith snorts, and Lance frowns at him. “Got something to say, dragonboy?”

“Oh, are we back to “dragonboy” now?” says Keith.

Lance shrugs, somehow making the gesture aggressive. “It’s accurate.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

Lance begins to speak again when Keith interrupts him. “I was just going to say that you weren’t actually painting. You were sleeping.” He turns to the officer. “I saved his life you know.”

“I already told you I could have handled it!” Lance waves his hands in front of Keith’s face. “Water magic, you mullet-haired idiot!” Keith gasps and raises a hand to the back of his neck, unreasonably offended.

“It’s not a mullet,” he whispers. The police officer rolls her eyes and keeps trying to do her job, once again placing herself between the two of them.

“Mr. Sanchez, Mr. Kogane,” she says, “can we please get this part finished up? I don’t know how much longer my partner is going to last.” All three of them turn to look at the officer still in the car, his eyes barely peeking out from behind his hands. “It’s his first day,” she explains with another tired smile. She has too much poise to actually rub her eyes, but her fingers twitch against the clipboard as she turns away from the car once again.

For the next half hour, Keith and Lance actually manage to remain cordial, if not friendly. It isn’t until the officer finally clicks away her pen and gestures Keith towards her waiting car that things get heated once again.

“You know the drill, Mr. Kogane,” she says. Keith nods, and follows her lead.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Lance says, running to catch up with Keith and the officer. “Where are you taking him?” The two turn to look at him, and the officer raises an eyebrow.

“To the station?” she offers.

“You can’t take him to the station!” Lance cries. Now it’s Keith’s turn to look surprised.

“Mr. Sanchez,” she responds, “he caught the building on fire.” Her tone is concerned, as if she’s worried he’s somehow forgotten about the still burning pile of rubble behind them.

“And my paintings! He caught my paintings on fire!” Keith feels another pang of guilt, and lowers his gaze to the ground. The officer runs a hand across the top of her ponytail and looks up to the sky. She closes her eyes.

“Would you like to press charges?” she asks, without opening them.

Lance sputters, and opens his mouth a few times before closing it. He turns to look at Keith, who tries to hunch his shoulders and seem not-dangerous. Lance’s mouth twists and he rubs paint-splattered hands against his face.

“I don’t know,” he finally answers. Keith looks up, eyes wide.

The officer sighs, sweeps an arm towards her car, and says, “Then I guess you’d better come with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A: Visit me at ariwrote.tumblr.com if you wanna fight. Elliot is over at badstorytime.tumblr.com, but don't tell her I told you that.


	2. No Bears Were Harmed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was the original argument between Keith and Shiro for a solid week and a half before I finally went back and changed it.
> 
> "Lecture lecture lecture!"  
> "Feeble defense," accompanied by shrug.  
> "Something about what happened last time!"  
> "Annoyed because last time was only kind of my fault!"  
> "Exclamation that there shouldn't have ever been a last time and that there most certainly will not be a next time!"  
> “Offended noises.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elliot: This chapter is completely from Keith's perspective, but don't worry! Chapter Three will be all Lance (for balance purposes and also because Lance is great).
> 
> Ari: Alternate titles for this chapter were "Allura Fights A Bear" and "Half-Dragon, Will Travel" among many other riveting names.

Lance declines the police escort. Keith is a little disappointed, but regains his senses when he realizes it means Lance probably isn’t going to press charges. It’s a good amount of weight lifted off of his shoulders. He isn’t too pleased to hand over his phone number, but Lance insists. Not in the way you want a cute guy to insist for your phone number, but rather in the way of somebody who still wants you to pay for all of their stuff that you burned down. Their expensive, artistic stuff.

Keith climbs into the back of the car and nods at the assisting officer, who squeaks at him and goes back to hiding behind his hands. Keith let out a sigh and leans back, closing his eyes as he cocks his head towards the roof of the car. The next fifteen minutes are calm, interrupted only by the muffled blasts from the radio and the low murmur of the officers’ response.

Then it’s like his body remembers what it’s been doing for the past few hours, and the exhaustion hits him in a wave. He slides down further in the seat and groans. He doesn’t know how he’s going to explain this one to Shiro.

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to. He nods and grumbles his way through the familiar procedures in record time, despite the fact that he keeps blinking for his mugshot. Five hours later, Keith stumbles onto the sidewalk outside, his eyes adjusting from the harsh fluorescence to the creeping dusk. He almost doesn’t see the figure leaning against the rough bricks of the police station. Waiting.

Keith walks a little faster, trying to pretend he doesn’t see him.

Shiro’s in front of him in a not-so-literal flash, radiating vampire speed and brotherly disapproval. He doesn’t even check to make sure he has the right miscreant before grabbing Keith’s arm and dragging him down the sidewalk.

Keith scrambles to keep up, wondering how easy it would be for Shiro to rip his arm out of it’s socket. He knows, with the logical part of his brain, that Shiro would never do such a thing, but it’s moments like these when he remembers why people think they need to be scared of his brother. Night has just barely fallen, the stars still blocked out by streetlamps, the day just a suggestion of orange against the horizon. Shiro isn’t a very old vampire; Keith might be able to make a break for it and survive for a few minutes. He decides not to risk it all the same.

“Keith,” Shiro growls.

“Shiro.”

“Don’t interrupt.”

Keith opens his mouth, but thinks better of it.

“Three times,” says Shiro. “You’ve burned down your building _three times_.” He yanks on Keith’s arm, forcing them both to stop and face each other on the sidewalk.

“Ow.”

“Don’t interrupt!”

Keith rolls his eyes.

“Three times, Keith!” Shiro throws his hands in the air, his voice rising in pitch and exasperation. “Three. Times. How did you manage to _accidentally_ burn down three buildings? I mean, if you were an arsonist I would understand, you would deserve to be arrested and everything would be right with the world, but buildings just keep burning down around you and-” Keith takes offense, even though he’s not sure if he’s actually being called an arsonist or not.

“I’m a dragon.”

“Irrelavent.”

“Completely relevant!” he argues. “Besides, this was the only building. The other two were just apartments, and the second one wasn’t even really my fault.” Keith’s voice was petulant, and (if you weren’t particularly fond of your limbs) you could even go as far as to say he was whining. Shiro just glares.

“Oh? And whose fault was it? You aren’t seriously blaming the eighty-year-old woman, are you?”

Keith flounders for a moment, before settling on a feeble shrug. Shiro combs a hand through the shock of white on his head, somehow managing to make his hair look exasperated.

“Keith…” Shiro’s voice is serious as he looks at him, a stark contrast to his rumpled appearance. His eyes search Keith’s face, dark and sharp as they flicker across his features. Keith draws himself in a little closer, uncomfortable with the sudden scrutiny. He doesn’t know if Shiro finds what he’s looking for, but after a final hard glance, he steps back with a sigh.

“At least you didn’t kill anybody.” Shiro turns away from him, and starts walking again. The rant seems to be over, but Keith still follows after him with a drop of caution. They walk side by side, shouldered against the dark city as they head towards Shiro’s apartment. Keith’s eyes instinctively follow the jagged movements of small creatures as they dart in the alleys that branch off the path, scurrying from one hiding place to the next, their tiny heartbeats quickening whenever they sense him nearby. Keith wonders if that’s how humans feel around his brother.

They walk together, striking fear in different kinds of prey. Shiro’s the one who finally breaks the silence.

“Do you know how early I had to wake up?” He complains, “It’s barely sunset.”

Keith sighs in relief. Shiro’s always forgiven him before, but this _is_ the first time he’s burned down an entire building.

“Yeah, about that. How’d you know already? I was very specific when I said that you were not to be called.”

“Allura heard it on her scanner and left me eight voicemails,” he says.

“Allura knows?”

Shiro grins, his fangs making the playful gesture seem almost menacing. “She’s not the happiest camper.”

Keith actually snorts. “Allura would never go camping.”

“I don’t know,” Shiro says, “She might like the chance to fight a bear.”

“The poor bear.”

Shiro laughs, and Keith’s chest loosens even more. He feels a little rush of joy whenever Shiro laughs; everyone does. It makes him human again, if only for a moment.

It’s proper night now, and the city is coming alive. Shiro’s shoulders begin to relax, some of the tension leaving his body as the night snakes around them. He has a place in this world, and Keith envies him for it. Every now and then Shiro nods or smiles to a person Keith almost doesn’t see. He doesn’t know if the smile is a friendly gesture or not.

They walk in a different silence than before, a chosen silence rather than a forced one. People weave past them, making their way towards the center of town as Keith and Shiro push closer to the outskirts.

Shiro’s apartment is on the forgotten side of town. It isn’t crumbling, just quiet. The lamps that line the sidewalk glow orange overhead, cutting slivers of warmth out of the shadows. They avoid the light, dodging easily through the darkness. It’s better not to be seen sometimes.

The apartment is really just a building pretending to be a house, squeezed in beside other buildings pretending to do the same. Even if Keith hadn’t been here countless times before, he would still be able to guess which house belongs to Shiro. It’s the only one without a light on in front, because (to quote) “Why pay extra for electricity?”.

Keith crowds next to his brother as Shiro rattles the doorknob, but before he can twist the key in the lock, the door swings open. Shiro goes still. Keith follows suit, his eyes sharpening into slits, ignoring the mild discomfort of his hands contorting into claws. Shiro glances down at his brother’s arms and rolls his eyes. Shiro’s more than capable of handling this on his own, _without_ mauling whatever has wormed its way into his apartment, but Keith is cautious to fault.

Shiro pushes the door open further, thankful that the hinges only creak a minimal amount. The rooms are still dark, exactly how he left them. Keith raises his nose in the air, trying to find an unknown scent, but everything rings familiar. Shiro raises an eyebrow, and Keith shrugs.

“There’s nothing strange,” he whispers. Shiro narrows his eyes, and they both creep forward a few more feet.

“Nice of you to finally join me,” says a voice.

Shiro leaps back, flattening himself against the wall in a flurry of silent limbs. Keith isn’t as graceful. He crouches low, hissing, feeling his spine crack and grow. Dark red scales slide over his body, and his teeth multiply and sharpen. Within a few seconds he’s not recognizable as human anymore, and it looks like Shiro has misplaced his brother and replaced him with a small, angry dragon. The dragon hisses again.

“Oh really, Keith.” The hall lights flick on, and Allura glares at the two of them, her hand on the light-switch. “Was that necessary?” She turns to Shiro, who’s trying to hide the dent he made in the wall. “Shiro, I expected better of you.” She looks at the door, which is still open behind them. “You need to invest in a better security system.”

“I am the security system.”

“Yes, well, you suck,” she says. Keith snorts from the floor, the tip of his tail twitching in amusement. Allura raises her eyebrow at him, and he regrets every decision he’s ever made.

“Keith, stop acting like an animal and get off the floor. I don’t see why you have to turn into a dragon every time there’s the slightest hint of danger.” The last part trails off into a mumble as she turns away from them and heads towards the living room, turning on lights as she goes. Shiro follows after her in a daze.

Keith growls low in his throat as he transform back into a human. His shirt survived, even if it is a bit loose now, but his pants did not make it through the spontaneous growth of a tail. He grumbles as he grabs a trench coat, kicking the door closed behind him as he sulks down the hallway and into the living room.

Allura’s barely perched on the sofa. She’s sitting as far forward as she can, mid-conversation with Shiro. Her elbows are balanced on her knees, so that her whole body jerks whenever her foot bounces. Her fingers are laced together, but every other moment she tears them apart to run a hand along her hair or make a wild gesture. Keith’s never seen her this jittery before. Allura is usually the calm, collected one. It’s what makes her a great knight. Seeing her like this worries him more than the potential of being jumped in his brother’s hallway.

The two fall silent, and Allura stands up, her eyes narrowed at Keith. “I forgot that I was supposed to be angry with you.”

He tries to look innocent. “Really? I don’t… That is to say… I think, personally--”

“You need to stop burning things down, Keith.”

“Yes, well, okay,” he says. “That’s fair. But you don’t need to yell at me! I’ve already gotten a lecture from Shiro.”

Allura glares. “Good. Now you’re going to get one from me.” And he does, though this speech is much more eloquent, and Allura seems even less inclined to let him ~~defend himself~~ interrupt. Shiro stands to the side, smiling in a way that could indicate pity or glee. Or both. Probably both.

It’s a solid five minutes before she’s done. Allura’s already taller than Keith, and she’s somehow managed to coerce him onto the couch so she can tower menacingly above him to an even greater extent. He feels very much like a small child.

Once she’s finally done with reprimanding Keith for his accidental arson, Allura flops down next to him on the couch. The fight is gone from her now, and she just looks tired. Shiro looks concerned, but that’s also just his face.

“Listen,” Allura says, “I didn’t come here only to yell at you.”

“That’s new.”

“Silence, Keith.” Keith meets Shiro’s eyes; his brow is furrowed and his shoulders are tense. Keith decides to shut up. “Why are you here then?” says Shiro.

“I am definitely not here to tell you about a _confidential_ police investigation.” Her eyes zero in on them at ‘confidential’. She waits until they both nod before she starts talking again. “And I am surely not here to convey information about a serial murderer.”

It’s Keith’s turn to sit at the edge of his seat. He thinks of newspaper clippings, now nothing but ash, pinned to walls of his old apartment. Allura had told him things she’d heard about the case before, but only after he had dragged the information from her. He tries to keep the excitement out of his voice. “What’s happened?”

She drops the safe language, if only for a moment. “They found a new body, a dragon shifter-” Keith takes in a sharp breath, “- and they are looking for a vampire as their prime suspect.”

Allura looks at them, her eyes nothing but worry. “The body was drained of blood. We don’t think there have been an humanoid victims yet.” Keith tightens his fist, and Allura turns red. “Except for the dragon shifter, of course.”

Shiro sits down on the sofa too, and the three of them sit there in silence for a few squished moments.

“What should we do?” asks Shiro, softly. He looks at Keith, but the question is for Allura.

“Stay home. Keith, I know you don’t really have a home right now, due to circumstances we have already discussed at length, but you’re welcome to the spare bedroom at my house.”

“He’ll stay with me,” says Shiro. Keith and Allura sigh in relief.

“Are we under house arrest? Because I know at least one person who will not be okay with that,” Keith grumbles. He doesn’t want to explain any of this to Lance.

Allura pushes off of the couch, gathering her coat in her hands. “Not officially. But yes, you’re under house arrest.”

“That seems unfair,” he argues.

“Shiro isn’t complaining.” They both look at Shiro, who just shrugs.

“I don’t much like leaving the house anyways,” he says. Allura smiles, which makes him get flustered and quiet again. Keith rolls his eyes.

Allura shrugs on her jacket, then places a hand on each of their shoulders. “Please,” she says, her tone serious once again, “Be careful.” She stands up, releasing them with a small smile. “And get a better security system.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A: Visit me at ariwrote.tumblr.com if you wanna fight.  
> E: My blog is dead but you can still look at it here -> badstorytime.tumblr.com


	3. A Necessary Shot of Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which We Meet Hunk, Pidge, and the Plot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elliot: Lance's body wash is called 'Aqua Muscles' and nobody can tell me otherwise.  
> Ari: Ignore any nefarious creatures claiming Lance's Body Wash is called 'Aqua Muscles'. They are obviously not in the right state of mind.

The first thing Lance says to Hunk as he stumbles into the apartment is, “I need a shower.”

Hunk is in the kitchen, glaring at the oven as if maybe they can scare the cake inside into perfection. When they hear the slam of the door and find the bleary-eyed figure of their best friend in the entrance, they take one look at him and say, “Pidge is in there, but I’ll tell her to hurry. Watch the oven for me?”

Lance mutters a “Bless you,” as Hunk pushes by him and towards the bathroom door. If it were any other day, he might have complained about Pidge using the shower in their apartment when she didn’t even live with them. As it was, today was the day a dragon with anger issues had decided to burn down his studio, so he sits down in front of the oven without a word.

“Lance, I thought I told you to throw that awful body wash away,” he hears Pidge call a few minutes later. He leans back far enough that he can see her upside down figure standing in the entrance to the kitchen. A towel is draped across her head like a hood, hiding most of the features that Pidge cannot scrub from her skin, the ones that identify as her as a dryad (the tell-tale pointy ears of all fae, or the tattoo-like vines that trail along her shoulders, curl around her ears, and bloom on her cheeks with the flowers of her tree). It cannot hide the supernatural glow of her eyes, though, which are turned towards the aforementioned bottle as if it has caused her personal harm. “I thought we agreed we were going for coconut now.”

“I forgot,” Lance replies, his face scrunching up a moment later, “and since when did you have any say in my body wash?”

“Since you couldn’t be trusted to pick a decent smelling one,” she replies. He watches as she walks over and unceremoniously flings the bottle into the trash can.

“Hey!” he yells, pushing himself up from his place on the ground, “I need that.”

“I’ll personally buy you a replacement,” Pidge says, a triumphant glint in her eyes as she stares down at the bottle. “Until then, use Hunk’s.”

“I didn’t agree to that,” says Hunk as they make their way into the little kitchen. It’s one of those kitchens only really meant for one person, so the presence of three -even if one of them is really small- makes things uncomfortable.

Pidge pats Hunk on the back, and grumbles, “It’s for a good cause,” before escaping the cramped kitchen for the open space of the living room.

Hunk’s bottom lip pokes out, but they reveal the hiding spot of their bath supplies before shooing Lance out of the kitchen.

“You better not have used all the hot water,” Lance calls to Pidge.

She glances up from where she is already sprawled out on the couch. “Think of it as a surprise.”

Lance scowls at her, and she sticks out her tongue. He turns away, stumbles into the bathroom, and mutters a prayer as he turns the knob to the bathtub. He nearly cries when he burns himself on the water coming from the faucet. He’s had a long day.

When he finally emerges from the sauna of the bathroom he still smells a little like a campfire, but he’s mostly free of paint and more inclined to conversation.

He finds Pidge unmoved from her spot on the couch, though Hunk has joined her there. The two of them are too engrossed in one of the minigames in Mario Party to notice him until he’s practically sitting in their laps.

“Get the hell off, Lance,” Pidge grunts, shoving an elbow into Lance’s chest. “This is no time for jokes.”

“I’ve had a bad day,” he whines, “and all I need to make it better is your unconditional love and devotion. Is that too much to ask?”

“When it means a loss to Princess Peach over there,” she says, nodding towards Hunk, “then yes.”

“She’s right,” Hunk the traitor says. Their brow is furrowed in concentration, but given what Lance sees when he glances at the TV, concentration is the last thing they need; a miracle might be better.

The mini-game ends with a predictable win to Pidge. With nothing demanding his friends undivided attention but the boy sprawled across their laps, Pidge and Hunk finally ask him what’s wrong.

He can’t even muster the proper dramatics, so he just says, “My studio burned down.”

“What the-” Pidge sputters, dropping her controller inches from Lance’s head. “You didn’t think to open with that?”

“Are you alright?” Hunk asks. Their eyes search Lance for injury, and they look ready to bolt for the emergency kit.

“Yeah,” Lance shrugs, “nothing but my entire livelihood burned down.” His voice cracks, and he’s blinking wildly for reasons that he refuses to acknowledge.

“What are you going to do?” Hunk’s voice is soft. Lance appreciates it.

“I-” He can’t afford another studio (the first had been a graduation present from an uncle who’d always been too proud of his little artist nephew), which means he’s back to struggling to find space in the tiny apartment they call home for his paints, his canvases, and his easels. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until there are sparks of colors dancing in the black.“-don’t know”

“Want me to make you something to drink?”

“Yeah,” he says, easing up the pressure on his eyes but not removing his hands. “Tea. Lots of milk, lots of sugar.” It’s a known fact that comfort drinks are solely Hunk’s territory in this household. Hunk makes the best… well, everything. Lance would call it magic if it wasn’t for his friend’s staunch denial of any magical ability.

“With a shot of good luck?” Hunk jokes.

“Heaven knows I need it,” he says, sliding his palms down his face.

Pidge snorts and pokes him in the head, “Take over for Hunk and help me finish this up. We’ve got like three more turns to go until I crown myself Queen of Mario Party.”

“Oh no you don’t!” Hunk calls.

Lance ignores the distressed Hunk noises coming from the kitchen and grabs the controller. “Oh, you’re on.”

(He ends up losing, but so does Pidge, so he’s not too heartbroken.)

When Hunk returns with a steaming mug of tea and three slices of cake balanced along their arm, the three of them start a new game. When they grow bored with Mario Party, they switch to one of the many other multiplayer games that Pidge has smuggled into the house. It’s nearly eleven before Hunk recommends they stop.

Pidge is practically falling asleep sitting up and Hunk has been non-stop yawning for the past five minutes. Lance can feel the exhaustion of the day wearing on him.  A bed does sound nice right about now.

He throws the blanket slung over the arm of the couch to Pidge, who catches it without opening her eyes. She’s practically snoring before her head hits the pillows. He chuckles and heads towards his own room, waving to Hunk as he passes by them.

Lance flops down onto his bed, not even caring to get under the cover. It’s been a long day, and he expects sleep to come easily. He tosses and turns for several minutes, trying to find the most comfortable place on his bed, but suddenly it seems that he can’t find it. He opens his eyes and glares at the ceiling.

He’s exhausted, but it’s the kind of  exhausted that’s circled right around to ‘too awake to even think of sleeping’. He pulls a pillow over his face and moans.

When it becomes apparent that he’s not going to be sleeping tonight, he tosses the pillow to the corner of the room and pushes himself up. The glowing _11:54_ on his alarm clock seems to mock him as he  rummages underneath his bed, blindly grabbing for a bag of spray paint that he knows is shoved under there somewhere. Painting had always help him before, and if he can’t paint the normal way, he’ll improvise. With an ‘ah-ha’, Lance’s fingers wrap around the strap of the bag.

He grabs the jacket hanging from his post with his other hand and slings it over his shoulders. The phone in the pocket of his jacket tells him it’s cold, but he doesn’t change into anything warmer. He doesn’t plan on being out all that long anyway. A jacket should be enough. He shrugs the satchel up higher on his shoulder and heads for the door.

The fact he feels the need to tip-toe out of the house is a testament to how bad of an idea this is. Night has always been a time when the darker parts of the city come alive. Even before he steps out the front door, he can feel the buzz of ancient magic he can’t name at his fingertips. It seems to be screaming at him to return to his bed and daring him to keep going, and anyone who knows Lance will tell you he can never turn down a dare.

The building he plans to use as a canvas is about a fifteen minute jog from his apartment. On his way, he passes by a figure in the process of shading in the last scales of a mighty dragon. It’s the kind you’d see in text-book or a lecture on the magnificent beasts who were casualty to loss of land and over-hunting. It’s head is held high, powerful wings stretched as if it were about to take flight. Smoke billows from it’s nose and it’s mouth is open wide as though it’s about to burn all who oppose it.

When the artist is done, the scales on the beast’s back shiver as the dragon comes alive. The wings beats up and down, and Lance feels a breeze that he cannot tell is imaginary or the magic of the dragon before him. It rears up and flames burst from his maw. Lance stumbles back, and instincts force his arms up to shield his face. He expects a roar, but hears only a pleased laugh in it’s place.

“Finally,” he hears the artist say, “I’d thought you’d never work.”

Lance feels the heat of nothing but embarrassment against his cheeks and continues on his path before the artist can notice him. He’s seen -and made- living art hundreds of times, but it never fails to surprise him.

The rest of his walk is uneventful; the streets are unusually quiet for this time of night. It should reassure him, but the hair on the back of his neck begins to prickle as he approaches an old building. The bricks are already stained with color, but he finds a corner of the wall that’s clear enough for him to squeeze a painting into. The tingling has spread throughout his spine, but he pushes the thought of it away as he drops his duffel onto the concrete. He came here to paint, and that’s exactly what he’s going to do, creepy feelings or not.

He crouches down and squints in the almost darkness, trying to discern colors in the yellow light. He picks out what he thinks is red and starts to rise, but a soft scratching sound to his left makes him freeze.His eyes scan the area, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise. The street lights above him begin to flicker.

The sharp smell of something ancient and dangerous is in the air. He feels his arms go dead  at his side, the pins and needle sensation of limbs slept on for too long.

He notices the runes first. They’re subtle, blended in with the graffiti that already litters the walls. The symbols along the cracked sidewalk are noticeable only from his crouched position, and even then just barely. He’s walked straight into somebody’s trap, and he feels like a real god damn idiot.

A flash of yellow in an alleyway catches his eye. He pivots towards the source and forces his arms up in front of him. “Who are you?” He calls, forcing bravado into his voice. He expects the growl of a feral animal, but the figure stays silent.

He’s not used to using his magic offensively, but he doesn’t doubt he’d be able to. He can only hope it’s enough.

The runes pulse; there’s a flash of yellow and then another. The scratching grows more frantic. He swears under his breath. It wasn’t just one person then. How many were there? Did he even have a chance at winning alone?

He grits his teeth, and tests the boundaries of the spell around him, desperately looking for a weak spot. There had to be one. If he could just find it, he knows he can break it. His mom’s paranoid teachings had to come in handy eventually. It might take all his energy, but it’s better than just waiting. At least this way, he could have a chance to get somewhere with people, with police.

He doesn’t want to think about the other ways this could end.

He almost starts to cry when he finally finds the weak spot. It flickers like the lights, but it's just enough. His captors are slow in their approach, as if they’re enjoying his panic. It’s their downfall, but Lance doesn’t stick around to tell them that.

He inhales, and let's his mind go blank, drowning in his own magic. For a moment, he expects to open his eyes and find himself at the bottom of a lake. When he sees nothing but the darkened street and his yellow-eyed captors, the urgency of the situation returns to him. He pushes against the weak spot until he can practically feel the spell snap under his fingers.

His body instinctively wants to collapse, but he pushes the ache in his bones to the back of his mind and bolts. He hears the scrambling sounds of his captors taking after him, and he pushes himself to run faster.

In the distance he thinks he sees a figure -help at last- and he lets out a sigh of relief. That is, until he feels a clawed hand wrap around his arm, and he forgets how breathing works at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A: Visit me at ariwrote.tumblr.com if you wanna fight.  
> E: My blog is dead but you can still look at it here -> badstorytime.tumblr.com


	4. Paperwork and Paperwoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edit: We noticed some ~plot~ mistakes in Chapter Four so we went back and corrected them. Sorry for any inconvenience; the changes weren't drastic so rereading won't be necessary, but you're welcome to do so. We can only offer a thousand apologies and promise not to write the chapters five minutes before we publish anymore. My bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> E: Somebody needs to make me stop writing these FIVE MINUTES BEFORE WE PUBLISH.
> 
> A: It's not gonna be me, I've already tried. Somebody send help. I'm dying.

When Lance returns to consciousness, he finds himself in a brightly-lit  hospital room with a police officer. He cannot remember anything past the moment a clawed hand latched around his arm and tore him from safety. The memories have been replaced by a smudged collage of colors, like a canvas where a clumsy hand had smeared the artist’s work. There’s a part of him that wants to panic; the man next to him does nothing to ease the worry in Lance.

“Do you remember anything from the attack?” The stern-faced police officer asks. His pen taps against the side of a clipboard, impatient and distracting in its repetition. Lance’s brow furrows as he tries to recall something, anything, but everything is a blur of color and distant sounds.

He knows something happened. The gash in his arm, his torn up blood-stained sleeve, and the near perfect puncture marks in his neck all _tell_ him that. His brain is just refusing to get the message.

The police officer sighs, “Listen, kid, we’ve got a pretty clear idea of what happened.” He motions to his neck, pausing mid-gesture when he notices the way Lance’s face goes pale. His hand drops to his side and he says, “We just need your help in confirming what we already know.”

“You caught them?”

“Yeah, we caught him just as he was trying to escape. Bastard was covered in blood,” the police officer says, waving the pen in his hand wildly. Lance’s eyes go wide, and he makes to pull himself up. The police officer pauses, and adjusts his body to put himself between Lance and the doorway.

The motion does not faze Lance, who continues to push himself up despite the ache in his arm. Between winces he manages to say, “I want to see him,”

The police officer’s eyes go bright and his pen stills, “Do you remember something?”

“Yeah,” Lance says, “Yeah, sure.” He’s not lying necessarily; he does remember something. His memories are fuzzy and distant. Flashes of black and white, a nervous hand pressed tight against his wound, and a panicked voice begging him over and over again to stay with him. That was not the voice of somebody who wanted to hurt him.

Lance’s gut tells him they have the wrong guy, but he doesn’t know how to collect the jumble of feelings into a coherent defense, so he just says “Yeah,” again and hopes that the officer will accept his half-truth and lead him towards some answers.

“I’ll go see if they can’t release you,” the police officer says, something like an awkward half-smile on his face. He exits the room, and Lance feels like he can finally breathe again.

He curls in on himself, careful to avoid jostling his arm. Hunk is going to kill him when they finds out what happened. Pidge might join in too. He can practically hear the scolding now.

The door swings open, and the police officer enters, his head bent over a clipboard as he flips through the pages.

“They just need you to sign some things,” the police officer says, using his back to push open the door, “then we can-” He lifts his eyes and pauses when he notices Lance’s curled up frame. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Lance says, holding back an awkward laugh. At this point, the man probably thinks that’s the only word he knows. He uncurls his legs and crosses them. “Are those the papers?”

“No,”  the police officer says, glancing down at the clipboard as if he’s only just remembered it was there, “the doc should be by with those in a couple minutes.”

Lance leans back, throwing his uninjured arm over his eyes. “Wake me when they get here.”

A few minutes later he hears the police officer ask, “What’s an eight-letter word for an annoyance?”

“What’s your name?” Lance does not respond.

* * *

 

The clock says two A.M, but Keith is hesitant to believe the glowing numbers. His day has felt much longer than that. He might be arrested more than the average citizen, but he’s never been to the police station twice in one day.

The usual bustle is almost completely gone. Keith catches glimpses of a few officers shuffling through the hallways when he peeks through the reception window, and a few more sit hunched over their desks in the background. The officer behind the counter has disappeared again, hopefully to go file the forms he’s spent the past hour filling out. He really hates paperwork.

Every few minutes he’ll stop pacing and try to see more of the station, searching for a familiar shock of white hair. He wonders if they let Shiro keep his arm; it’s a pretty good weapon, if you know how to use it. And Shiro definitely knows how to use it.

Keith paces for a few more minutes, arms crossed and lips pouting, before he finally flings himself back down onto the metal bench pushed against the wall. The receptionist still hasn’t come back. He scoots a little closer to the lamp in the corner, trying to offset the chill of the metal beneath his legs.

He leans back and presses his hands against his face, trying to rub the tiredness out of his eyes. Everything has been moving so slowly, and yet he feels like he’s running out of time. Keith has never really been known for his patience, but all he can do now is wait.

“Mr. Kogane?” His body jerks forward, and he lets out a gasp that he will deny later on. He has to blink a few times before the world comes into focus. The familiar face peering down at him is full of concern, but he almost smiles when he sees who it is.

“Hello again, Officer,” he says. The female officer from this afternoon is standing in front of him, and her body language suggests that she wasn’t really ready for Keith to wake-up so violently. She’s got a cup of coffee clutched in each hand and a stack of folders shoved under her arm; the dark circles under her eyes are familiar. Keith is pretty sure he looks about the same, even if he is lacking a certain amount of poise.

“Did you burn something else down?” She seems apprehensive, almost as if she’s not quite sure she wants to hear his answer.

“No ma’am,” he says, “I’m here for Shiro.”

“Your brother? He burnt something down?”

“No,” Keith says, “Just several poaching charges and one count of suspected murder.” Her eyes widen a little, but she doesn’t say anything. “They’ve got the wrong vampire,” he continues, his voice rough. “They’re wasting their time here when they should be out looking for the right one.” She remains silent, but she offers him a small smile and holds out one of the steaming cups of coffee.

“Here,” she says, “You need this more than I do.” He takes it, immediately thankful for the warmth that spreads through his fingers. His body is not equipped to handle cold situations.

“Thank you.” He takes a sip, and they’re both silent for a moment.

“I’ll go check and see what’s taking them so long with the paperwork,” she says. Keith gives her a grateful smile, and she nods once before turning towards the door leading back into the station.

She doesn’t get a chance to leave before the door behind them is flung open. Keith jumps as the blast of the cold air from outside hits him, but he feels a rush of relief (quickly followed by panic) when he sees the familiar silhouette in the doorway.

Allura storms into the room, her eyes wild. She has a traditional cloak wrapped around her shoulders, and it flutters dramatically for a moment before she kicks the door closed. The officer is frozen halfway between the reception area and the rest of the station. It’s not uncommon for knights to work alongside the police force, so it’s unlikely that the officer has never heard of Allura, but it’s a very different thing to hear about her and see her in the flesh.

Allura glares at the room, her eyes flickering back and forth between them.

“Where is Takashi?” Her voice is broad, and Keith isn’t sure who she wants an answer from. The female officer slides her eyes towards Keith before turning fully into the room and offering a low bow to the knight in front of her.

“Lady Allura,” she says. Allura raises her eyebrows, then tilts her head a sliver to the left. The officer lets a bit of the tension out of her shoulders in relief as Allura turns her full attention towards Keith.

“Where is your idiot of a brother?”

“They haven’t released him yet,” he says.

“They haven’t released him yet?” She glares at the officer, who takes a very small step back.

“I’m not working this case, my lady,” she says quickly. “I was just on my way out to see what was taking such a long time.” Allura nods, and the officer executes a barely appropriate bow before hurrying through the door.

Allura doesn’t sit down, choosing to lean against the wall beside the reception window instead. She crosses her arms across her chest and stares at the door.

“It shouldn’t take them this long,” is all she says. Keith takes another sip of his coffee and begs for the caffeine to kick in. A few more minutes pass in silence, and then the door swings open again; but it’s the wrong door.

Another rush of cold, and the squat form of a police officer enters the room, followed by a boy that was growing all too familiar. Keith shoots up into a standing position, almost spilling his half-empty cup of coffee in the process.

“Lance?” Lance looks up, and Keith almost gasps when he sees the bruises that make a loose pattern around his neck. Lance’s knuckles and palms have red scrapes across them, and Keith feels a little stab of guilt in his gut. Lance has been having a really bad day.

Lance flounders for a moment, unsure of what to do when confronted with a concerned dragon-boy for the second time that day. Keith tries to move forward, but the officer that came in with Lance steps between the two of them and holds up a hand. 

“You’re gonna have to move aside,” he says. The silver tag over his pocket says his name is Officer Peterson, and he looks like the kind of man who is unfamiliar with the concept of smiling. Keith stays where he is.

“Keith?” Lance finally asks. He glares at the back of Officer Peterson’s head and tries to maneuver past him, but the officer moves with him. Allura steps forward, and his eyes go wide.

“M’lady,” he says. He frowns, but gives her a passable bow. 

“Peterson,” she responds, and doesn’t acknowledge his presence further. Lance watches the exchange with a confused expression, unsure how he’s supposed to greet the tall elf standing in front of him. He settles on a simple curtsy, and Allura raises her eyebrows at the perfect execution before giving him a wide grin. Officer Peterson’s frown deepens as Allura turns to address Keith.

“How do you know this young man?” She asks. Keith feels his face burn a dark red, and he tries to stutter out an answer.

“Well, I… Remember when I, um, was it yesterday or--”

“He burned my studio down,” interrupts Lance. His voice holds less venom than it would have this morning, but Keith chalks that up to exhaustion rather than forgiveness. His cheeks heat up some more, and he feels scales slide their way across the back of his hands. He gives Allura a sheepish look, and she tries very hard not to roll her eyes.

“Of course he did,” she says. Peterson shoots them both suspicious looks before he steps back and pushes Lance in front of him.

“Listen, I’ve gotta get him in there,” he says. “Mr. Sanchez here is a vital witness in a very important case.” Peterson’s chest swells with implied grandeur, and Allura casts her eyes to the ceiling and mutters a quick prayer of tolerance. Peterson raises his voice a little when he realizes his words aren’t having very much affect on the room. “His statement will help us officially charge the vampire with attempted murder.” Keith’s eyes go wide.

“I already told you it wasn’t the vampire,” Lance mutters. Allura and Keith both turn towards him.

“You were attacked by a vampire?” Keith asks.

“No!” Lance glares at the officer behind him. “They just think I was.”

“The vamp was covered in your blood,” says Peterson. “Of course he’s the one who attacked you.”

“Shiro would never attack anybody,” says Keith, his voice growing louder, “Let alone murder them!”

“Shiro?” Lance says, even more confused. Peterson furrows his brows and shoves his hand against Lance’s back.

“It’s time to go,” he growls. He pushes forward and Lance stumbles further into the room.

“What? No, hold on.” Keith doesn’t know who he should be trying to convince. “Shiro didn’t do it.” Peterson ignores him and keeps a steady pressure between Lance’s shoulder blades.

“He didn’t--”

“Wait,” Lance says, shoving his heels into the ground. Peterson grunts in surprise and collides with his back. Lance turns around to face Keith, and he looks like he’s about to fall over. “Tell me what’s happening.”

“You don’t need to know what’s happening,” says Peterson as he swivels Lance back towards the door. Allura makes as if she’s going to take a step forward, but Peterson has already shoved Lance through the doorway.

“Somebody needs to tell me what the hell is going on,” comes a muffled shout from the other side.

“Text me!” yells Keith. “I think I might know what the hell is going on!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A: Visit me at ariwrote.tumblr.com if you wanna fight.  
> E: My blog is dead but you can still look at it here -> badstorytime.tumblr.com
> 
> (bonus points if you can guess the eight-letter word Peterson was looking for)


	5. Let Keith Say Fuck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A: The supply of pre-written/half-written chapters is used up. Wish us luck on this new journey of 'Desperately trying to not procrastinate because we don't have a buffer and procrastinating anyway'.
> 
> E: I am very excited for the journey, it's how I've been doing things this whole time. (I hope you like the chapter title, our friend came up with it and we are eternally grateful.)

It’s hours before they finally release Shiro. Allura spends that time closed-mouthed, leaning against the far wall and glaring at the door to the station. Her index finger taps incessantly against her crossed arms, the only thing giving away her true frustration. Keith remains silent, but every few minutes he checks his phone. Allura makes note of the gesture.

Keith perks his head up at a muffled commotion, but when it quiets down within a few seconds and nobody emerges from the other side he slumps back down onto the bench. He spends the rest of his time staring at the ceiling and hoping that his phone will vibrate. It doesn’t.

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but it’s not surprising that he does. It’s been a long day. He wakes up to a gentle jab in the middle of his forehead, and shoots up so quickly that he almost manages to headbutt his brother in the chest.

“Shiro?” Keith blinks and rubs at his eyes, trying to make the world come into focus. 

“You need to stop trying to attack me every time I wake you up,” says Shiro, a grin coloring his blurry features. Allura laughs as Keith half-heartedly swats at him. He swings his legs over the edge of the bench and stands, only a little wobbly, relieved to see his brother again. It takes him a second to notice that Shiro looks a little… lopsided.

“Shiro,” he says, “Where’s your arm?” Shiro’s face turns red. He eyes don’t meet Keith’s as he steps back from the bench and runs a nervous hand through his already mussed hair.

“I, uh, they…” He coughs, mumbling something under his breath. Allura narrows her eyes, and he gives her a sheepish look. He pulls at his ear before continuing. “They had to… confiscate it?” Shiro poses the statement like a question, his voice rising in pitch as he continues to avoid their eyes.

“I assume that was the fuss we heard,” says Allura, smiling at Keith. They both laugh, and Keith gives Shiro’s arm a little shove. He’s happy to have his brother back, even if he doesn’t technically have all of him.

The sun is pushing against the horizon, and they have maybe fifteen minutes before day breaks. Allura doesn’t even try to clean up her pyramid of coffee cups before shoving them out the door, glancing at the growing light with accusation in her eyes. It only takes a few minutes before she pushes them into a jog.

“Did you, um, did you get to talk to Lance?” Keith asks as they run alongside each other. 

“Lance?”

“You don’t know his name?”

“Whose name?”

“The guy they accused you of attacking, his name is Lance.”

“They wouldn’t tell me anything, I didn’t even know he was there,” says Shiro. He stares at the ground, his voice quiet. He looks up at Keith, suddenly curious. “How do you know his name?”

“He burned down his studio,” Allura shouts. She’s already far ahead and glaring at them over her shoulder, trying to mentally will them to move faster. They pick up the pace, even though there’s only two or three blocks left and the sun is still firmly behind the horizon.

“No wonder they thought I was guilty,” says Shiro. Keith doesn’t say anything to that, and they run the rest of the way in silence.

Allura is waiting for them when they get to the front door, and she ushers them in with a few more nervous glances at the sky.

“You know sunlight doesn’t burn  _ my _ skin off, right?” Keith says as Allura elbows him through the door. She doesn’t dignify him with a response, and the room goes pitch black as the door slams behind them. She makes her way down the hall and flicks on the light switch.

“You,” she points to Shiro, “Bed. Now.”

“But--”

“Now.” Shiro flounders for a moment before hanging his head and trudging up the stairs. Keith feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, and he fumbles for a moment as he tries to yank it out. He ignores the fact that his hands are shaking. It doesn’t say much, just an address and a time. For such a loud person, Lance’s text is uncharacteristically brief.

“Allura, I have to go.”

“Keith, you slept in a police station last night.” Allura is incredulous, and she swivels her head back and forth between the empty staircase and Keith, who’s already halfway out the door.

“Wasn’t the first time,” he shouts over his shoulder. She rubs her hands against her face and watches his retreating back until he turns the corner. Allura kicks the door closed and mumbles a curse under her breath as she drags herself onto the couch. It’s going to be another long day.

* * *

 

There’s a storm on its way, says the gray sky above Lance’s head, and you’re an idiot for not bringing an umbrella.

He lets his heels dig into the dirt where children’s feet have pushed away the woodchips, and leans back in the swing. His grip on the chain is tight enough that it’ll surely leave indentions in his hands. The sky is blue -thousands of shades of blue- beneath the gray, but Lance’s attention is solely on the red figure making it’s way to the swingset where Lance has set their meeting.

“A playground?” Keith asks, leaning against the swingset and looking just as out of place as Lance imagined he would. His hair doesn’t look like it’s seen a comb in days (or ever), and the jacket he’s wearing looks inside out, as if he’d thrown it on in a rush (which given how the day had been, Lance wouldn’t doubt he had).

He stifles a laugh and and pushes himself off the ground with his heels.“Less for you to burn down, Dragonboy.” 

Keith frowns, turning his head to glare at the jungle gym where unsupervised children try to pry their friend’s fingers from the bars. He’s acting huffy, but the blush that dusts his cheeks betrays his true feelings. Lance might have called it cute if it weren’t Keith.

“So,”  Keith murmurs. His eyes flicker back to Lance before they turn downwards to his feet. He kicks the woodchips, and glares as if they might give him an answer on how to talk to Lance.

He’s lucky Lance is willing to pity him. “How’s Shiro doing?”

“Good,” Keith says, and Lance can see the relief in the slump of Keith’s shoulders, “He’s back home. He has an alibi for the other murders” -and he says that word like he has something to prove- “and their lead witness is screaming that he didn’t do it; they had to let him go. Their case was falling apart before it even began.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“A lot of things,” Keith says, crossing his arms. His grip is tight enough against his chest that Lance is worried for his jacket. “They’re just going to blame another vampire, and who knows if that one is even going to be lucky enough to have an alibi. Meanwhile, the real killer is free to go on.” He pauses and then under his breath,” They weren’t even interested in the case until-” He stops himself, a suddenly guilt-stricken expression on his face.

Lance hums, and on the forward swing lets go of the chains so he’s flying forward. When his feet hit the ground, he teeters for a moment before regaining his balance and swiveling to face Keith. “The words you’re looking for are, ‘until you got involved’, right?”

“I thought it was rude.” His grip on his jacket loosens and he does a little awkward half-shrug.

“It is,” Lance says matter-of-factly, walking the few steps to stand beside Keith, “but I’ll forgive you if you tell me what you know about all this.” He waves his hands and winces when he knocks it against a metal pole.

Keith’s eyes latch onto his hands for a moment, and then dart to his collar bone. Lance instinctively reaches up to cover his neck, insecurity over the mark flaring up despite the bandages covering them. “Your bruises are gone” Keith says, eyes narrowing in something like suspicion.

Lance laughs, an awkward half-choking thing and says, “Well, yeah, my mom forced me to down one of her potions after she and my other mom picked me up. It’s suppose to help or something. Tasted awful, though.” He shakes his head.”But enough about that. You’re not getting out of this, Keith. You owe me an explanation.”

Keith takes a deep breath and glances around before starting, “I assume you know nothing about this whole case, do you?”

“I wouldn’t be here otherwise,” Lance says.”Don’t get me wrong.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “You’re wonderful company, but this really isn’t my first choice of venue after getting out of the hospital.”

Keith makes a noise like a disgruntled cat, but continues on, “Before… last night, there have been around four other known cases.  None of them were lucky like you. The police haven’t been interested until now. Apparently when it’s just ‘poaching’ they couldn’t give a fuck.”

“Poaching?” 

“The previous cases have all had ‘non-humanoid’ victims. Imps, golems, kappas...” He pauses here, and the undeniable smell of smoke that Lance is starting to associate with Keith permeates the air. Despite the jacket, Lance can see the scales crawling up his neck, and the tight grip returns, this time accompanied by sharp teeth and claws. “And shifters.” By the time he finally spits out the word, Keith seems more beast than man.

Lance pushes down the urge to run away. He tries his best to calm his rapidly beating heart but his eyes keep latching on to the claws that have replaced Keith’s hands. The nearly healed gashes along his arms ache. They were not that sharp yesterday, were they? 

The park grows silent as even the sounds of children playing fade out.

Keith notices Lance’s panic a moment too late, and he jerks up a little straighter. Something unnamable flickers across his features as they shift back to those of a human. He doesn’t meet Lance’s gaze until nearly every trace of dragon is gone, and when he does his expression is more closed off than Lance has ever seen before. It’s only a second before his eyes dart back to the ground.

The silence continues to stretch, eventually growing too stifling for Lance to handle.

“Maybe we could do something about it,” he says.

That finally drags Keith’s eyes from the ground. “What?”

“I mean, since the police aren’t doing anything about it, why don’t we give it a shot?” 

“You wanna play detective?” There’s the tiniest hint of a smile on Keith’s face, and Lance really couldn’t care less if it was only at the stupidity of his own suggestion.

“You got a better idea?” 

Keith snorts, “Better than that.”

“Oh yeah?” Lance crosses his arms and leans in conspiratorially. “Let’s hear it.”

Pink dusts the tips of Keith’s ears, and his/ voice is uneven as he says, “Well, I figured...”

“Uh-huh…” Lance tilts his head to the side, and the pink spreads to Keith’s cheeks.

“I was” -he lets out an obviously fake cough- “going to use myself as bait?”

“What,” and then again, “What?”

“Bait. I was going to-”

“No, I heard that part,” Lance says, “I was just trying to figure out how the hell that was a better plan than mine. Like? You said it yourself! Almost no one survives those attacks.”

“You did,” Keith says petulantly.

“Just barely and only because I had the training to break spells like that,” Lance hisses,

poking Keith in the chest. “If you got stuck in that situation, you’d be dead, and considering that you still owe me I’m not letting that happen, Keith.”

Keith’s chest puffs out. “You’re underestimating me.”

“You’re overestimating you,” Lance replies. “C’mon, which sounds better? A suicide mission or an awesome as hell detective adventure with me?”

“Let me think about it,” Keith says, but the smile he’s trying to hide on his face says he’s

totally up for the awesome as hell detective adventure. Lance decides he likes this Keith much more than the uncomfortably silent Keith that he’s used to. No sooner than the smile arrives, it leaves, and he’s caught off guard as Keith’s expression suddenly darkens, fixating on something behind Lance’s left shoulder.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “We have to go. Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A: Visit me at ariwrote.tumblr.com if you wanna fight.  
> E: My blog is dead but you can still look at it here -> badstorytime.tumblr.com


	6. Awesome As Hell Detective Adventure: Origin Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A: This chapter is sponsored by Sleep Deprivation. Do your work early, kiddos.  
> E: I would also like to thank our other sponsors, Caffeine and Bad Decisions.

 

“Fuck,” Keith says again. He turns in a quick circle, his eyes frantically scanning the playground as he searches for an escape route.  Lance looks at him, panicked. Keith catches his arm as he tries to turn around.

“Don’t look at her,” Keith whispers. He’s stopped his frantic rotation and is now frozen in place, his eyes locked with Lance’s. “If you don’t look at her she can’t see us.”

“ **Keith!** ”

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Keith hisses. His eyes narrow into slits, and this time when Lance tries to turn around, Keith does not stop him. If Lance is going to go down with him, he might as well know what’s going to kill him. That doesn’t mean he’s going to let go of his arm, though.

Allura approaches at a steady pace, looking just as terrifying in one of Shiro’s stolen sweaters as she might have in full battle armor. Her hair is like a tangled halo around her head, and the dark circles under her eyes do nothing to soften her expression. Before Keith can gather his wits to run, she’s on them, seething with the rage of a woman who’s had to deal with too much shit in the past forty-eight hours.

Keith offers a pre-emptive, “I’m sorry,” as if maybe it’ll soothe her.

It does not.

At Keith’s side, Lance is frozen, staring slack-jawed at Allura. Unsure of what else to do, he pulls his arm out of Keith’s grasp (which Keith pretends doesn’t bother him) and quickly executes an elegant curtsy, followed by the cautious beginnings of an explanation. “My lady, I--” Allura holds up a hand.

“I appreciate the effort, Lance,” she says, “Truly, I do, but I don’t have it in me to be a lady at this moment.”

He falters for a second, and Keith feels an uninvited pang of sympathy.

He doesn’t respond, only giving Allura a slight nod before turning towards Keith. He stumbles back as Lance shoves him in the shoulder, the sudden anger catching him off guard. Apparently Lance doesn’t have it in him to be a lady either.

“What the hell was that?!” Keith can’t read his expression, but it’s something akin to furious relief. “I thought we were being attacked, you--you--” Lance sputters, struggling to pry an appropriate insult out of his adrenaline-addled brain.

“Takashi called him ‘mullet brain’ when he was younger,” suggests Allura. Keith glares at her.

“Yes! You mullet brain,” Lance says, smiling triumphantly. Keith isn’t sure whether to be happy that Lance is smiling or annoyed that he’s calling him ‘mullet brain’ instead of ‘dragonboy’ now. He definitely prefers the latter.

“She’s gonna stop us from going on an awesome as hell detective adventure,” Keith mumbles. Lance rolls his eyes.

In a move reminiscent of Shiro, Allura runs a hand through her hair and sighs. “Will you ever stop stressing me out, Keith?” He ignores her question and responds with his own.

“How did you know where I was?”

“You’re not very hard to find.”

“That’s not an answer.” Allura doesn’t even dignify that with a response. “Wait, where’s Shiro?” He narrows his eyes, worried. “Did you leave him at the house  _ alone _ ?”

Allura crosses her arms and makes an offended noise. “Shiro is an adult vampire, of course I didn’t leave him at the house alone. I called Coran to watch him after you ran off into the sunrise.”

Lance raises an eyebrow.

“He’s basically useless once the sun comes up,” Keith explains. “We barely got him home in time. We’re lucky he even made it to the bed”

“Mostly to the bed,” Allura corrects, her lips pressed together as she tries to hide a smile and remain scary enough to lecture them.

“Mostly?”

“He managed his arm and most of his upper torso before he fell asleep. Which reminds me,” she says, holding a finger to her chin, “We have to stop by the police station on our way home to pick up his other arm. They are officially releasing it from evidence.”

“His arm?!” Lance’s voice is filled with confusion and mild disgust. Allura looks at him, startled, almost as if she had forgotten he was there. She’s had a long day.

“Prosthetic,” Keith explains, taking pity on Lance, who is still very concerned. “He lost the original before he was turned. It’s mechanical, but Allura magicked it a while ago so that it would actually work.”

“Oh,” Lance says, relieved. “That’s pretty neat.” He looks like he wants to ask more, but Allura begins to speak before he can say anything else. Keith is relieved. Just because he  _ is _ magic doesn’t mean he  _ understands _ magic (things would probably catch on fire less if he did) and Allura’s explanations often make things more confusing than they were to begin with.

“Keith,” she says, “I know you mean well.” Her tone is sincere, but even though she meets Keith’s eyes with a steady gaze, her fingers twist the edges of her stolen sweater. “I know that you want to run off to do something brave and exciting-” She glances meaningfully at Lance, and Keith feels his cheeks heat up “-and I know this means more to you than it would to most people.”

He doesn’t deny it. He thinks of his brother’s tired eyes, and the case file full of lives that weren’t quite human enough. His gaze flickers to Lance, and the dark pattern of scratches on his arm that may never fade. Of course this means more to him.

Allura squeezes her eyes shut, looking very much like she’s about to say something she’ll regret. Lance and Keith look to each other, unsure of how to proceed. The suspense lasts for an unbearable moment before she finally continues.

“For this reason, and for many more,” she says, opening her eyes and spreading her hands in a gesture of defeat, “I am not going to try and stop you.” There is silence for only a second, just enough time for Keith’s heart stumble, before an elated shout rings through the air.

“I knew it!” Lance shouts, his eyes dancing. Lance’s smile is wide, and Keith feels his face mimicking the gesture before he’s fully processed what’s happening. Lance looks ready to jump in the air and yell some more, but he settles on shaking Keith’s shoulders.

“Awesome as hell detective adventure,” he grins.

“Awesome as hell detective adventure.”

Allura sighs again. “When Takashi asks, you will tell him that I did all that I could to prevent this from happening,” she says. “We have eleven hours before he wakes up. Let’s go.”

* * *

 

“We have to stop by your house first,” says Allura once they’ve all piled in the car. Lance calls shotgun, and makes a show of stretching out his legs as Keith grumbles his way into the backseat. “I promised Coran I’d be back within the hour to relieve him of babysitting duty, and it’s only fair that I warn him about the change of plans.”

Lance nods, though he’s not quite sure who this Coran is and why he matters. He leans his head against the window and watches the trees and buildings pass by. 

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until his makeshift window-pillow is rudely pulled away from him, and he’s very suddenly falling. He jerks awake, and finds himself a foot away from the ground, suspended only by Keith’s arms on his shoulders. Once his brain has caught up with the situation, he pushes himself up and glares at Keith. 

“Asshole,” he says once he’s on his own two feet. He elbows Keith in his side. 

Keith, further cementing his new title, smirks at him.

Allura sets them up in one of the living rooms, a wide room with thick carpets and a fireplace that she was kind enough not to light. The hallways she leads them through have literal tapestries hanging on the walls, and Lance tries hard not to be distracted by the sheer elegance of it all. Keith is obviously unimpressed, and wastes no time spreading the hundreds of crime scene photos across the coffee table. They abandon the couch in favor of sitting cross-legged on the ancient hardwood floors, folders stacked around them and organized according to some method that Keith doesn’t bother to explain to Lance.

It’s really only then that the reality of the situation hits Lance.

Here’s the thing about Lance’s awesome as hell detective adventure: he hadn’t planned anything about it beyond ‘tempting alternative to Keith’s stupid, suicidal idea’. He’d known that he’d have to come up with something, eventually; he’d just thought that that entire thing would be a problem for a future Lance who’d had a full night’s rest and wasn’t still trying to work through the fact he’d been attacked by an actual serial killer. The reality he is in -the one where he’s sitting knee to knee with a dragonboy while surrounded by files upon files about a case he’s only just heard about- doesn’t seem like a reality he should ever be a part of.

But here is.

Lance can’t focus; he doesn’t know whether to blame his brain or the sheer amount of information that’s being forced upon him. Lance picks up a photo and immediately puts it back down again, the images making his stomach churn. The cold language of the reports is in sharp contrast with all the memories he has of the other night, which are just a tangled web of flashing lights and adrenaline-fueled emotions. He picks up a file and flips through it, trying to force his brain to process the scribbled words that he’s read at least ten times. He lets out a frustrated sigh.

“You okay?” Keith asks. He’s sifting through pictures of crime scenes, the kind that Allura could definitely get in trouble over if it came out that she’d shown them to civilians. If he’s affected at all, he’s got a better poker face than Lance. When Lance doesn’t respond, Keith sets the photos down and looks up at him. “Lance?”

“I’m-” Lance starts, before pausing. He opens his mouth, closing it a moment later. He lets out a huff, before trying to laugh the awkwardness away. “Yeah, I- I just need to text my roommate. Roomates? One of them doesn’t really count,” he babbles. “They’re probably worried sick since I disappeared last night.”

Keith’s face scrunches up; he obviously doesn’t believe Lance, but Lance is out of the room before he can say anything. He slams the door behind him, and ignores Keith’s shouted protest.

He let his feet choose his path. Allura’s house is a confusing mass of hallways, but Lance is thankful that whoever had designed it had favored aesthetic over privacy. Lance does not think he could handle the claustrophobic, windowless hallway that he’s used to right now. 

He nearly crashes into Allura. It’s her own reflex that save the computer in her hands from crashing to the ground. He mutters out a quick apology and tries to push past her. Her arm stops him in his tracks.

“Allura,” he starts, voice tinged with confusion as he frowns  down at her unmoving arm, “what are you doing?”

“Lance,” she says, her expression unreadable, “I need to ask you something.”

“If it’s for a da-” Lance starts, wishing to cut the tense atmosphere with some kind of humor.

Allura cuts him off, “Do you want to be a part of this investigation? Or were you just saying that to keep Keith safe?”

“You know what his plan was?”

“It’s Keith,” she says in a way that makes his name sound like both an insult and something she’s incredibly fond of. Her hand slides down from the wall, but Lance does not make a move to run. “It isn’t hard to guess what he wanted to do.”

“He’ll get himself killed,” he bites, crossing his arms and trying to bury the panic with anger. 

“It’s not your job to keep him safe,” Allura says. “The gods know I’ve been keeping him alive too long to be uprooted by some new kid.”

Lance blinks, unable or unwilling to understand. “What are you saying?”

“I’m giving you an out.” Her shoulders slump. “You can text a friend to pick you up. I’ll tell Keith-” She pauses, and runs her fingers through her hair, “-I’ll tell him something.”

Lance is motionless as Allura adjusts the computer in her arm and walks past him. He does not move until he hears her call out behind him, “And Lance?”

“Yeah?”

“Whatever you choose, I hope you and Keith keep in touch,” she says. He hears a door close behind him, and he’s alone again in the hallway.

He leans against the wall, what little energy he had left finally drained. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and bites his lip, glancing towards the closed doors. His message to Hunk is simple: “I’m not dead. Something important came up.”

And then he turns off his phone and goes back in.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A: Visit me at ariwrote.tumblr.com if you wanna fight.  
> E: My blog is dead but you can still look at it here -> badstorytime.tumblr.com


	7. A Brief Scientific History of the Undead (With Original Sources)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> E: Sorry for the late chapter! You can hold me personally responsible.  
> A: It's April Fool's and the joke is us.

The door swing open, yanking Keith’s attention away from the files that are completely blocking his view of the floor. Lance’s eyebrows are drawn together as his slips his phone into his pocket, and he sits down next to Keith without an explanation for his sudden, odd behavior.

Keith doesn’t question him, though he feels the suspicion bubbling up inside him. He ignores the silence and slides an open folder towards Lance, who takes it with a suspicious look.

“Don’t worry,” says Keith, “I took out all the pictures.”

Lance blushes and glances down at his lap. “Oh, uh--thanks.”

“It’s the case file from the first attack,” he explains as Lance flips through the papers.

“There isn’t anything here,” Lance says. He holds up the police report, which has barely three sentences scribbled on it. “They didn’t even report it as a murder?”

“The victim was a kappa,” says Keith. Lance doesn’t seem to understand.

“Yeah? So?”

“So?” Keith looks at him, incredulous. Lance waits for an explanation. “If someone kills a kappa, they get charged with poaching. Kappas aren’t considered humanoid within the court system, so killing them isn’t considered murder.” Keith reaches behind him and pulls forward another stack of folders. He lists species as he drops folder after folder into Lance’s lap.

“Kappa. Imp. Golem. Kappa. Dragonshifter.” His tongue stumbles over the last one, but he keeps going. “Every single case is poaching, except--” He pauses, and looks up at Lance. Lance finishes his sentence for him.

“Except for me.” Keith nods and doesn’t say anything else. Lance rubs a hand along his neck, pressing against the bruises that are all but faded. 

“The police weren’t taking it seriously until you got involved,” Keith says.

“I don’t even know if they’re taking it seriously now,” says Lance, dropping his hand. “They’re still insisting that a vampire did it, no matter what I tell them.” He flutters his hand through the air around his head. “They think I was hallucinating or something. Besides, your brother has an alibi for pretty much everything.”

“He’s surprisingly social for an undead being,” Keith says. He leans back and stares at the ceiling, thinking about everything that haven’t figured out yet.

“We haven’t considered the possibility that it’s a different vampire,” Keith says. He’s been so caught up in proving that one specific vampire was innocent, he never thought to turn his attention towards another. Lance shrugs, doubtful. Keith shakes a report out of a manila folder and scans it before grabbing another and repeating the action.

“Lance?”

“Hmm?”

“How many attacks have there been so far?” Lance counts up on his fingers.

“Five, I think. Six if you include me,” he says.

“In the span of what? Two weeks?” Lance does some more counting.

“Three weeks, but it’s been been four days since the last murder,” he says. Keith notices the way Lance phrases it and tries not to smile at such a grim topic.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Keith says. “Vampires don’t need that much blood.” He shuffles papers around, looking for some obscure statistic. “I don’t know the specific math, but I’ve never met a vampire that’s ever needed to drain someone completely, let alone five or six someones in less than a month.”

Lance looks convinced.

“Can vampires have claws?” he asks. Keith pretends he doesn’t notice the way Lance’s fingers twitch at the corners of the bandage that snakes around his arm.

“Not any that I’ve met.”

“Then it wasn’t a vampire,” he says. “Something else is doing this.”

“So we haven’t figured anything out other than the fact that it’s not a vampire,” says Keith, “Which we already knew.”

“Pretty much. Except now we super-know it.” Lance smiles and Keith rolls his eyes. They both stare at the folders. Keith knows that there’s an answer hidden in there somewhere, deep in the sparse language and gruesome pictures, but he doesn’t know what questions he’s supposed to be asking anymore. He must have unconsciously made a disgruntled noise, because Lance echoes his thoughts out loud.

“It’s hard to find something if you don’t know what you’re looking for,” Lance says, leaning back against the foot of the couch. He stretches out his impossibly long legs and runs idle fingers over the folders, every emotion he’s feeling written on his face. Frustration. Exhaustion. Lance looks up to meet his eyes, almost as if he can feel Keith studying him, and he sees something else there too. Something that might not be bad at all.

It is in this moment, in frustrated, sympathetic silence, that Keith figures out what he should be asking. He jolts forward, and Lance jumps a little before shooting him a puzzled look.

“Lance, it’s not vampires!”

“What?” Lance isn’t sure where this is going yet. “Keith, I know. We just, like, triple confirmed that it wasn’t a vampire.”

“Then why do they need the blood!” His question is loud and not even phrased as a question, excitement coloring his words in a way it hasn’t in hours.

“What?” Lance is too tired for this.

“The blood. If it isn’t a vampire, then why do they need the blood!” Lance’s eyes widen, understanding finally breaking through the fog that was clinging to his mind.

“Ah!” he says, unable to process the information fast enough to form coherent, human words. “Ah-ahh!”

“Ah!” Keith says in response. Lance leans forward, running a hand through his hair as he stares at the ground, his eyes fluttering from one piece of paper to the next. He looks up at Keith, meeting his eyes, and they just grin at each other for a few moments. It’s the first question they’ve had in over five hours, the first new idea, the first new lead. The excitement starts to fade, however, when they realize they don’t have the answer.

“Why do they need the blood?” Lance mutters, posing the words as a real question for the first time.

“Do any other magical beings need blood?” Keith asks. The papers are just unorganized mountains around him, and he doubts they have the answers. Lance shrugs.

“I only know what my moms taught me,” he says. “And those lessons mostly just revolved around how to hurt anything and everything that came near me.” Keith raises an eyebrow, but accepts it nonetheless. Lance is a complicated person.

“I don’t know much,” Keith admits. Lance doesn’t ask which part of the conversation he’s talking about, and Keith doesn’t care to elaborate. Their spirits drop a little, and reality comes washing back in. They both lean back again, discouraged. But only for a moment.

Keith sits up.

“I have an idea,” he says.

“Another one? This must be exciting for you,” Lance says, trying hard not to smile. Keith lightly-ish punches him the shoulder, but Lance’s smile just grows wider.

“Allura has a lot of books in her library about magical stuff,” he says. “We could sneak in there and see if we can find anything.”

“Well, we definitely need to know about magical stuff,” Lance says, dodging Keith’s second swing at his arm, “and I’m all about sneaking. But couldn’t we just, you know, ask Allura to let us into her office?”

Keith turns redder than usual and mumbles something under his breath.

“What did you say?” Lance says, “I didn’t quite catch that.” Keith glares at him.

“I’m not… technicallyallowedinthelibrary,” he grumbles, refusing to look anywhere but the floor. “There was… an incident. A while ago. I was young. Young-er. I was eleven.”

“Did you burn down the library?”

“Only part of it.”

“Okay,” Lance says. “Sneaking it is.”

* * *

 

It’s surprisingly easy to sneak into the library. Allura’s security system seems to be mostly focused on making sure people don’t get into her house, and then hoping they get lost in the winding hallways if they manage to make it inside. After they go through one or two rooms, Lance couldn’t have found his way back to the front door if he had a map. Keith seems to know where they’re going, though, so Lance tries his best not to look like a lost puppy as he follows a few steps behind him.

The library is, like everything else in Allura’s house, massively impressive. The decor is made of dark oak, polished to a shine, but there’s very little furniture in the room besides the looming bookshelves and a lone desk shoved in the corner. Two sturdy wooden ladders slide in railings along the walls, and most of the leather bound tomes have uncracked spines. It looks like it should be lit by firelight rather than the bright fluorescents that lay flush with the ceiling.

There’s a portion of the room that looks newer than the rest, and Keith turns red again. It’s the only part of the room that looks like it’s ever in use. A worn brown-leather couch with a knitted blanket tossed over the cushions is angled to get the best lighting from the stained glass windows, and there’s a small pile of paperbacks with colorful covers partially shoved underneath it. As Keith moves to scan one of the larger shelves, Lance wanders over to the couch and peeks as some of the titles Allura’s been reading most recently. There’s a surprising mix of crime fiction, historical articles (mostly about ancient fighting techniques), and romance novels; but there’s one heavy, leather-bound book that seems out of place.

He picks it up, and flips through the pages. He notices a bookmark sticking out the top, and open it up to the marked pages. His eyebrows furrow together as his mind stumbles through the thick, scientific language.

“Lance, stop snooping,” Keith calls from the other side of the room. “There are tons of books here, and none of them have titles on them.” He climbs up the ladder and randomly grabs a book. He fans the pages before mumbling and shoving it back, yanking out the one next it.

“This system doesn’t make any sense,” he mumbles as he puts that one back too. “There are books about poison next to gardening journals.” Keith pauses, thinking back to all the times he dug up plants in Allura’s garden when he was younger. He’s suddenly glad he wasn’t the kind of kid who liked to eat things he found outside.

“Lance,” he calls again as he reaches for another book, “I already said to stop snooping and come help me look. Allura’s gonna figure out we’ve been in here and it will be easier on both of us if you don’t go through her personal stuff.”

“It’s not like I’m reading her diary,” Lance says as he comes to stand at the base of Keith’s ladder, a dark volume tucked under his arm. “Besides, you can stop looking.” He holds up the book triumphantly, a smug look on his face. “I’ve already figured it out.”

Keith raises his eyebrows, but comes down anyways. “I find that hard to believe.”

Lance raises a hand to his chest in mock offense. “No need to be harsh, dragonboy.” Keith rolls his eyes and holds out his hands for the book, which Lance (graciously) places in his arms. Keith’s wariness doesn’t fade when he reads the title on the first, thin page.

“A Brief Scientific History of the Undead With Original Sources?” he asks. “How is this supposed to help us?”

Lance comes around behind Keith, easily peering over his shoulder. He reaches over and open the book up to the bookmark, his long fingers, still stained with paint, almost brushing against Keith’s as he turns the pages. Keith feels his heart speed up a little bit.

“There,” Lance says, pointing to a paragraph. Keith’s face scrunches up as he tries to understand what it’s saying. “I don’t understand like half of the words,” Lance continues, stepping away from Keith and coming to stand back in front of him, “but I’m pretty sure it’s about quintessence and magic and it definitely mentions blood.”

“I think saying ‘I’ve solved it’ may have been premature,” Keith says.

Lance shrugs. “Perhaps,” he says, “but at least it’s  _ something _ .”

Keith has to reluctantly agree with him.

“We’re going to have to ask Allura about this,” Keith says. “She knows more about this kind of thing than I do.” He slams the books shut, making grumbling sounds. “I suppose she would have figured out we went in here anyways, might as well get it over with.” The smile on Lance’s face when he looks up catches him off guard.

“I think I may know someone else who can help,” Lance says, grinning. 

Keith sighs. Of course he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A: Visit me at ariwrote.tumblr.com if you wanna fight.  
> E: My blog is dead but you can still look at it here -> badstorytime.tumblr.com
> 
> UPDATE:  
> We will be taking a little break from updating for a week or two. We're both getting a little overwhelmed with family and work and school, and we want to make sure that we enjoy writing this story as much as we hope you enjoy reading it. Don't worry, we'll be back soon, and we'll still be responding to comments! Thank you for your understanding and patience.  
> I realize April Fool's isn't this best time to announce this but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


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